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Form  No.  A-369 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/francisherbertroOOstro 


FRANCIS  HERBERT, 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION, 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY  GEORGE  Y.  STRONG. 


NEW-YORK : 
PRINTED  BY  LEAVITT,  TROW  &  CO., 
33  ANN-STREET. 

1847. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 
LEAVITT,  TROW  &  CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


Leavitt,  Trow  &  Co.,  Printers, 
33  Ann-street,  N.  Y. 


TO 

JESSE  P.  SMITH,  ESQ., 

THE  FOLLOWING  JUVENILE  PRODUCTIONS 

&te  Hetifcatrt, 

ttt  TOKEN  OF  THE  SINCERE  ESTEEM  AND  UNDYING  AFFECTION  OF 

THE  AUTHOR. 


to 


FRANCIS  HERBERT; 

A   TALE   OF  CAMDEN. 

IN  FOUR  CANTOS. 


CANTO  I. 

"  Oh !  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practice  to  deceive  !" 

*  I. 

The  night  was  dreary,  damp  and  chill, 

The  voice  of  man  was  hushed  and  still, 

No  sound  was  heard,  save  when  the  blast 

With  hollow  murmurs  wandered  past, 

Or  when  the  rain-drops  patt'ring  fell, 

More  rudely  from  the  night- winds'  swell ; 
1* 


6 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


But  though  the  storm  thus  raged  without 
And  winds  and  darkness  joined  the  rout, 
There  was  a  darker  storm  within, 
The  storm  that's  caused  the  heart  by  sin. 

If. 

Although  the  night  was  waning  late, 
In  wakeful  mood  Frank  Herbert  sate ; 
He  seemed  a  shade  amid  the  gloom, 
Prevailing  in  his  lonely  room; 
For  scarce  dispelled,  a  flick'ring  light, 
The  darkness  of  that  dismal  night. 

III. 

The  hostel's  lord  had  gone  to  rest, 

Sweet  slumber  now  his  eyelids  blest, 

For  though  the  thunder-peal  of  war 

Had  echoed  o'er  the  land  afar, 

Though  time  had  been  when  you  might  know, 

In  brother  e'en  a  mortal  foe, 

When  Nature's  lovely  ties  undone 

Gave  way  like  mist  before  the  sun, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


7 


When  neither  peace  nor  rest  were  given 
To  men,  by  zeal,  to  madness  driven, 
Yet  now  the  "rebel"  army  near, 
Has  struck  all  royal  hearts  with  fear, 
And  Peace  again  serenely  reigns, 
O  Camden !  o'er  thy  hallowed  plains, 
But  oh !  how  long  shall  quiet  last  ? 
War  soon  shall  sound  his  startling  blast, 
Shall  rear  aloft  his  bloody  form ; 
'Tis  but  the  calm  before  the  storm. 

IV. 

But  why,  when  all  were  wrapt  in  sleep, 

Should  Herbert,  thus  his  vigils  keep  ? 

And  why  should  slumber  thus  deny, 

Its  quiet  to  that  restless  eye  ? 

Go  ask  the  dark  and  sinful  breast, 

That  peace  from  trusting  hearts  would  wrest, 

And  all  their  fondest  hopes  destroy, 

If  aught  it  knows  of  peace  or  joy  ? 

If  calm  and  quiet  ever  dwell, 

Where  heaves  the  breast  with  passion's  swell  ? 


8 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Go  ask  the  mountain  in  whose  heart, 
Fierce  flames  and  fiery  lightnings  dart, 
And  storms  and  tempests  vainly  rage, 
To  rid  them  of  their  narrow  cage, 
If  ever  those  wild  ravings  cease, 
If  aught  it  knows  of  calm  or  peace? 

V. 

Ah!  no!  his  actions  unrestrained, 
Showed  that  unrest  within  him  reigned ; 
For  looked  he  now  with  vacant  gaze, 
Upon  the  candle's  fitful  blaze, 
And  plainly  told  his  dreaming  eye 
His  thoughts  were  lost  in  revery. 
Anon  with  earnest  seeming  look, 
He'd  con  the  pages  of  a  book, 
But  at  some  sudden  thought  his  brow 
Was  lighted  up  by  Passion's  glow, 
And  flashed  his  fierce  and  gleaming  eye, 
"  Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight  sky." 
This  gust  of  passion  o'er,  he  stood 
In  calm  and  melancholy  mood, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


9 


But  when  the  night-winds  rushing  by, 
With  more  than  wonted  tones  would  sigh, 
He'd  listening  hold  attentive  ear, 
Or  start,  look  out,  and  try  to  peer 
Through  the  deep  gloom  prevailing  there. 
And  when  no  object  met  his  gaze 
In  that  uncertain  darkling  maze, 
And  when  upon  his  ear  there  fell 
No  sounds  save  from  the  storm's  rude  swell, 
With  disappointment  on  his  face, 
The  room  with  hasty  steps  he'd  pace, 
And  then  in  quickly  muttered  word, 
His  low  aud  trembling  voice  was  heard. 

VI. 

"  That  villain  comes  not ;  yet  'tis  late. 
Must  I  upon  his  movements  wait  ? 
Oh,  cruel  fate  !  that  such  a  shame 
Should  rest  on  my  once  honored  name  ! 
One  month  ago,  and  who  had  told, 
Frank  Herbert's  spirit,  proud  and  bold 
As  the  free  eagle,  when  he  flies 
Upward  and  onward  to  the  skies, 


10 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Should  bowed  in  slavery  ever  be, 

And  could  not  from  its  thraldom  flee  ! 

But  hence  cursed  thought !  Oh,  I  must  strive 

Remembrance  from  my  breast  to  drive, 

Or  else  my  portion  is  despair. 

But  hark!  what  breaks  upon  my  ear? 

Of  horse's  hoofs  it  is  the  sound  ; 

They  loudly  o'er  the  winds  resound. 

The  villain,  then  he  comes  at  last, 

Would  that  our  interview  were  past !" 

VIL 

Is  seated  Francis  Herbert  now ; 

The  clouds  have  vanished  from  his  brow, 

And  o'er  his  face  expressions  play, 

Serene  as  is  the  summer  day. 

What  charm  has  wrought  this  magic  spell  ? 

The  bosom  skilled  in  guile  can  tell. 

VIII. 

A  step  is  heard  ;  one  moment  more, 
Is  opened  on  his  room  the  door, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  by  the  dim  light's  flick'ring  glare, 
Is  seen  a  manly  figure  there. 
His  person  though  half  hid  in  shade, 
Seemed  firmly  knit,  and  stoutly  made, 
And  mighty  were  that  stalwart  arm, 
In  doing  deeds  of  good  or  harm. 
His  hollow  cheek,  his  sunken  eye, 
Spoke  of  the  midnight  revelry, 
And  sprinkled  o'er  with  gray,  his  hair 
Showed  premature  old  age  was  there. 


IX. 

"  Well,  Bertram,  why  this  long  delay  ? 
It  wants  but  little  now,  till  day. 
You  should  not  me  thus  wakeful  keep, 
And  break  upon  my  hours  of  sleep. 
However,  still  art  welcome  thou, 
And  will  be  ever  so,  as  now." 


JV. 

"  Now  by  my  troth  thou  know'st  right 
And  thy  own  heart  the  tale  could  tell, 


12 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Thou  would'st  a  great  deal  sooner  see 

The  devil  in  this  room  than  me." 

Fierce  lightning  flashed  from  Herbert's  eye, 

Up  darted  quick  his  poniard  high  : 

"  Die,  William  Bertram,  villain,  die !" 

But  Bertram,  firm  as  is  the  rock, 

Stood  all  unmoved  th'  impetuous  shock, 

And  turned  with  ease  the  blow  aside  ; 

Then  with  a  look  of  cruel  pride, 

And  triumph  on  the  youth  he  gazed, 

And  slowly  up  his  sabre  raised : 

"  I'd  kill  thee,  Herbert,  but  disdain 

My  sabre  in  thy  blood  to  stain. 

I  will  advise  thee,  foolish  boy, 

Put  up  thy  more  than  useless  toy. 

And  if  thy  blood  thus  hotly  boil, 

Reserve  it  for  the  battle's  toil." 

XI. 

But  here  the  youth,  with  bosom  bare, 
In  faltering  accents  uttered,  "  Here 
Take  from  my  heart  the  drops  of  life, 
And  cease  at  once  this  shocking  strife ! 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

I  care  not  now  when  life  is  o'er, 

Since  honor  is  for  me  no  more  ¥' 

"  Thy  honor  lost !  'tis  in  my  hands, 

And  surely,  there  it  safely  stands. 

Come,  Herbert,  sheathe  thy  sword  ;  and  now 

Dismiss  those  shadows  from  your  brow. 

Our  work  upon  this  dismal  night 

Was  milder  than  to  kill  or  fight. 

Come !  give  me,  as  you  know  you  must, 

Some  lucre  for  my  faithful  trust. 

Your  secret  I  as  safely  keep 

As  if  'twere  buried  in  the  deep. 

Next  time,  methinks,  you'll  wisdom  gain, 

To  speak  in  somewhat  lower  strain, 

Than  on  that  soft  and  moonlit  night, 

When  with  your  first  of  ladies  bright, 

You  spoke  of  things  " — 

"  Oh !  Bertram,  hush  I 
If  my  poor  heart  you  would  not  crush  ; 
Do  not  recall  those  scenes  again, 
Or  give  another  useless  pain. 

2 


14 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


But.  this  I  say,  and  boldly  too, 

Although  it,  Bertram,  be  to  you, 

For  him  who  would  with  willing  ear 

Another's  secret  overhear, 

And  with  it  cause  that  hellish  pain 

Which  wrings  the  heart  and  racks  the  brain, 

Of  deepest  Hell  the  angry  flood 

Were  twice  ten  thousand  times  too  good, 

And  torture  o'er  his  soul  should  flow, 

Which  not  the  worst  of  devils  know." 

XIL 

u  And  say  I  too,"  then  Bertram  said, 
"  He  who  would  win  confiding  maid 
And  then — but  pass  I  o'er  the  rest, 
Well  known  it  is  to  thine  own  breast. 
It  is  not,  Herbert,  my  desire, 
To  rouse  at  all  your  useless  ire, 
Or  give  your  heart  one  moment's  pain ; 
My  only  object  here  is  gain. 
That  inmost  secret  of  your  breast 
You  unawares  to  me  confessed. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

But  I  will  pause,  my  claim  you  know, 

And  that  you  must  the  meed  bestow/' 

"  Well,  since  it  must  be  so,  that  I 

My  honor  at  your  hands  shall  buy, 

Here  is  a  purse  well  fill'd  with  gold, 

Its  contents  o'er  this  eve  I  told, 

'Tis  what  you  asked.    Here,  quick  begone, 

For  God's  sake  leave  me  now  alone." 

"  Aye,  aye.    Now  since  thou  actest  right, 

And  handest  o'er  the  guerdon  bright, 

I  will  begone."    Soon  on  the  plain 

His  horse's  hoofs  were  heard  again* 

XIIL 

Was  silent  Herbert.    On  his  face 
The  deepest  anguish  you  could  trace. 
And  even  stern  and  grim  despair 
Seemed  but  too  firmly  seated  there. 
At  length,  howe'er,  his  smothered  grief 
In  language  hurried  sought  relief: — 
"  The  cursed  wretch.    O  God !  O  Hell ! 
Who  can  my  woe,  my  anguish  tell  ? 


16 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


"Tis  worse  than  death  itself  to  be 
The  victim  of  such  tyranny. 
O  Susan !   'Tis  for  thy  dear  sake, 
That  I  these  cruel  insults  take. 
'Tis  for  thy  lov'd,  thy  blessed  name 
Submit  I  to  this  foulest  shame. 
For  I,  alas !  know  but  too  well, 
The  tale  this  cruel  fiend  could  tell, 
Would  load  thy  spirit  with  despair, 
And  drive  a  poisoned  arrow  there. 

"  Though  well  thou  lov'st  me,  still  thou  art 
Too  pure  to  wed  this  sinful  heart. 
If  thou,  perchance,  should'st  ever  know 
The  fires  that  do  within  it  glow, 
The  light  would  leave  that  loving  eye, 
The  rose  upon  that  cheek  would  die  ; 
Sweet  peace  forever  would  depart, 
All  broke  wrould  be  that  loving  heart. 
Then,  then,  oh !  what  were  left  to  me, 
But  darkness,  blight  and  misery  ? 

"  It  is  the  hard  and  cruel  thought, 
Of  peace  from  this  old  ruffian  bought. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  that  I  long  am  doomed  to  be 
The  slave  of  such  base  cruelty, 
That  plucks  from  hope  each  blissful  ray, 
And  almost  wrings  my  soul  away. 
I  must,  I  will  devise  some  plan 
To  rid  me  of  this  fiendish  man. 
For  I  could  bear,  in  deepest  Hell, 
The  tortures  of  the  damned  as  well !" 

XIV. 

Here  ceased  his  troubled  words.    His  brow, 

So  fierce  and  stern,  is  quiet  now. 

Though  still  its  lines  are  gently  bent, 

As  on  some  anxious  thought  intent. 

One  moment  lights  his  face  a  smile, 

As  hope  his  bosom  doth  beguile. 

The  next,  it  is  as  quickly  gone, 

As  thoughts  of  darker  hue  come  on. 

XV. 

Again,  his  words  unconscious  showed 

The  thoughts  that  in  his  bosom  glowed. 

2* 


18 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


"  Let's  see.    Ah !  fight  we  side  by  side, 
Now  Heaven  o'er  my  plan  preside ! 
One  only,  yes,  one  single  blow, 
Would  lay  in  death  the  villain  low, 
And  none  would  e'er  suspect  the  one 
By  whom  the  deed  of  death  was  done. 
O  thought !  thou  dost  relieve  my  pain, 
And  mak'st  me  breathe  with  ease  again 


CANTO  II. 

"  True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  Heaven." 


I. 

Twas  early  morn  ;  with  cheerful  ray 
Commenced  the  sun  the  summer  day. 
Had  passed  the  storm  and  tempest  by, 
All  clear  was  the  unsullied  sky, 
And  beauty  o'er  the  landscape  wild, 
So  brightly  and  serenely  smiled, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Th'  observer  scarce  could  fail  to  swear 
That  tempests  ne'er  had  battled  there. 

II. 

But  in  this  beauteous  morning  scene 

Which  glittered  with  the  diamond's  sheen, 

As  from  the  grass  the  radiant  dew 

Its  sparkles  o'er  the  landscape  threw, 

Was  heard  a  sad  and  mournful  lay; 

A  warrior  hied  him  on  his  way  ; 

Though  stern  his  heart,  it  could  not  prove 

Impervious  to  the  shafts  of  love, 

And  slowly,  as  he  went  along, 

'Twas  thus  flowed  forth,  the  plaintive  song 

nr. 

'Tis  rosy  morning's  genial  hour, 

The  shades  of  night  have  passed  away, 

All  Nature  feels  its  magic  power, 
And  hails  with  joy  the  rising  day. 


20 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


The  scene  where  raged  the  storm  erewhile, 
Far  brighter  than  its  wont  appears ; 

"Tis  like  on  beauty's  cheek  the  smile, 

When  scarce  have  gone  the  falling  tears. 

The  squirrel  chirps  upon  the  tree, 
Disporting  in  the  summer  morn; 

Is  heard  the  murmur  of  the  bee, 
And  from  afar  the  peasant's  horn. 

The  lark  opes  wide  her  shrilly  throat, 
The  robin  joins  in  mirthful  song, 

And  now  the  mocker's  silver  note, 
Is  borne  upon  the  breeze  along. 

Yes  !  all  around  are  gay.    But  I ! 

Ah !  in  my  heart  does  darkness  dwell ; 
'Twere  better  far  that  I  should  die, 

Than  living  bear  the  pangs  of  Hell. 

And  were  it  not  for  that  dear  one, 

Whose  heart  is  worth  the  Indies'  store, 

This  chequered  scene  should  soon  be  done, 
And  I  would  suffer  here  no  more. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


21 


For  easy  'twere,  in  thickest  strife 
To  seek  at  once  for  death  and  fame, 

And  leave,  by  laying  down  my  life, 
A  patriot's  and  a  soldier's  name. 

IV. 

Hushed  was  his  voice ;  the  starting  tear 

Stood  in  his  eye.    But  look  ye  there  ! 

By  Heaven,  a  spirit  of  the  air ! 

Who  would  not  own  thy  ruling  power, 

Thou  guardian  genius  of  the  hour  ? 

Who  would  not  ?    For  the  morning's  beam, 

Doth  brightly  in  thy  glances  gleam. 

The  roseate  hues  the  morn  that  streak, 

Divinely  bloom  upon  thy  cheek. 

The  morn  no  fairer  ruby  knows, 

Than  on  thy  lip  in  beauty  glows. 

Thy  locks  of  gold  are  brighter  far 

Than  are  the  beams  of  morning  star ; 

And  fairer  form  was  never  given, 

To  Houri  in  the  courts  of  Heaven. 


22 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


V. 

But  see !  the  one  thou  prizest  most, 
Is  he  to  love  and  feeling  lost  ? 
Or  doth  he  not  that  form  espy, 
And  will  he  pass  unheeding  by  ? 
Alas  !  for  sad  and  troubled  thought, 
He  heeds  thee  and  he  marks  thee  not. 

VI. 

O  Love !  though  wayward,  young  and  blind, 
Like  thee  what  power  can  we  find, 
When  thou  with  virtue  art  combined  ? 
Thou  reignest  in  the  peasant's  breast, 
And  minglest  in  his  dreams  of  rest ; 
The  maiden  in  her  moonlit  bower, 
Feels  with  resistless  force  thy  power ; 
The  prince  thy  empire  freely  owns. 
Thou  rulest  monarchs  on  their  thrones, 
Dominion  hast  in  realms  above, 
For  God  is  Wisdom,  Power,  Love ! 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Whene'er  thy  influence  is  felt, 
The  ice  around  the  heart  must  melt. 
The  feeling  chilled  by  earthly  woes, ! 
Again  with  new-born  ardor  glows, 
And  tongues  that  else  would  silent  be, 
Can  speak  if  prompted  but  by  thee. 

VII. 

Thus,  Susan,  'twas  with  thee.    Thy  tongue 

Refused  the  words  that  on  it  hung. 

Whene'er  thou  didst  essay  to  speak, 

A  flush  but  mantled  on  thy  cheek, 

Till  Love  to  thy  assistance  came, 

And  thou  could'st  call  thy  lover's  name. 

VIII. 

Then  at  that  soft  and  thrilling  sound, 
He  starts  and  wildly  looks  around. 
He  sees  thee  now,  and  to  the  ground 
Springs  from  his  steed  with  single  bound ; 
And  soon  thy  angel  form  is  pressed 
In  love's  warm  feeling  to  his  breast. 


24 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


IX. 

Now  vain  indeed  it  were  to  tell, 
Of  that  which,  all  can  guess  so  wTell, 
Of  vows  which  lovers  oft  repeat, 
Which  are  and  will  be  ever  sweet ; 
Of  the  long  drawn  and  gentle  sigh, 
Affection  speaking  from  the  eye, 
And  words  which  tell  of  strongest  faith, 
Unshaken  and  undimmed  by  Death. 

X. 

At  length,  when  in  the  eastern  sky 
The  sun  was  slowly  waxing  high, 
And  shot  upon  the  winding  way, 
A  brighter  and  more  burning  ray, 
The  maid  with  gentle  accent  said, 
"We  have  perhaps  too  long  delayed. 
Alas !  how  time,  the  tyrant,  parts 
The  purest  and  the  warmest  hearts. 
These  twigs  of  box  and  myrtle  tree, 
Emblems  of  love  and  constancy, 
Receive  as  simple  gifts  from  me. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


25 


And  if  it  be  by  fate  decreed, 

That  thou  shalt  in  the  battle  bleed, 

That  there  thou  shalt  all  lonely  die, 

With  none  to  soothe  thy  anguish  nigh, 

Then  meekly  bow  to  Heaven's  will, 

And  think  that  I'll  be  constant  still. 

But,  Francis,  should  it  be  thy  lot, 

Safe  to  return  from  battle  fought, 

When  this  fell  work  of  death  is  o'er, 

And  drums  shall  sound  to  arms  no  more, 

Then  shall  our  hearts  more  blithesome  grow, 

Nought,  nought  but  pleasure  shall  they  know ; 

Nought  shall  in  life  their  bonds  dissever, 

They  shall  be  blest,  and  blest  forever. 

XL 

She  turned  her  quickly  from  the  spot, 
She  looked  not  back,  she  faltered  not ; 
And  near,  where  stood  her  father's  mill, 
(Its  site  is  seen  by  travellers  still,) 
A  boat  was  drawn  upon  the  shore. 
She  pushed  it  off.    Then  with  light  oar 
3 


26 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  speed  of  sea-gull,  Granville's  daughter 
Plies  dashing  o'er  the  rippling  water. 
And  when  she  gained  the  farther  strand, 
She  turned  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 
The  youth  returned  this  mute  adieu, 
And  sadly  from  the  scene  withdrew. 


CANTO  III. 

"  Grim-visaged  war  now  rears  his  direful  front." 
I. 

On  Clermont1*  falls  the  evening  shade. 
Old  Night  draws  close  his  sable  plaid. 
A  bustle  reigns  in  Gates's  camp, 
The  charger's  neigh,  the  soldier's  tramp, 
And  booming  notes  of  martial  drum 
Upon  the  evening  zephyrs  come. 

*  See  note  at  the  end  of  the  Canto. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

The  spangled-banner,  lifted  high, 
Seems  sporting  in  the  twilight  sky  ; 
The  band  around  that  standard  draws 
Who  fight  for  Right's  and  Freedom's  cause. 
For  though  the  beams  of  day  are  gone, 
And  Earth  has  "  Darkness'  veil "  put  on, 
They  soon  shall  move  upon  their  way — 
Too  sultry  is  the  summer  day.2 

II. 

Apart  from  all  this  martial  din, 
The  chief  commander's  tent  within, 
The  leaders  of  "  grim  visaged  "  war 
In  grave  and  serious  consult  are. 
Amid  the  stern  and  martial  crowd, 
Is  Saratoga's  chieftain  proud, 
There  waves  De  Kalb's  majestic  plume, 
Here  Herbert,  with  his  brow  of  gloom. 
Save  of  the  chief,  their  features  wear , 
A  shade  of  mingled  thought  and  care. 
Their  minds  are  busy  with  the  word 
Which  they  have  from  that  chieftain  heard ; 


28  FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

For  he  has  said  with  purpose  high, 
"  Ere  gilds  the  sun  the  eastern  sky, 
We  march ;  and  ere  is  set  that  sun, 
The  bloody  game  is  lost  or  won." 

III. 

De  Kalb  at  length  the  silence  broke, 
And  thus  with  earnest  manner  spoke : 
"  Sir,  may  it  please  you,  though  we  still 
Must  bow  to  our  commander's  will, 
Yet  think  you,  if  we  now  shall  go 
Upon  that  yet  unconquered  foe, 
And  there  should  suffer  total  rout, 
What  darkness  would  it  bring  about  ? 
The  fatal  blow  our  hopes  might  sever, 
Our  dreams  of  freedom  mar  forever. 
And  thus  it  must.    Untutored  band 
Can  ne'er  their  veteran  charge  withstand. 
I  care  not  for  myself  ;  'twere  bliss 
To  lose  my  life  in  cause  like  this ; 
E'en  though  it  be  not  mine  by  birth, 
I  love  it  more  than  aught  on  earth. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


So  I  this  liberty  must  take, 
And  ask  for  God's  and  Freedom's  sake, 
That  you  will  from  this  conflict  stay, 
Till  dawns  a  more  auspicious  day." 

IV. 

As  answer,  thus  the  chief  returned — 
High  feeling  in  his  glances  burned — 
"  Let  coward-hearts  that  battle  fear, 
Remain  in  peace  and  quiet  here. 
But  they  must  forfeit  glory's  name 
And  place  upon  the  rolls  of  fame. 
But  those  who  know  not  fear  will  go, 
On  what  thou  call'st  unconquered  foe. 
Unconquered !  Speak  not  that  again, 
But  think  of  Saratoga's  plain." 

V. 

De  Kalb  arose.    "  Short  time  may  show 

The  one  who  fears  to  meet  the  foe. 

The  man  who  for  this  country  fought, 

I  honor  as  a  soldier  ought, 
3# 


30 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  will  as  long  as  life  remains 
Remember  Saratoga's  plains. 
But,  Sir,  the  time  full  soon  may  be, 
Although  that  day  I  would  not  see, 
When  Northern  laurels  shall  decay, 
Or  change  into  the  Southern  bay."3 
With  lip  compressed,  and  vision  bent, 
He  bowed  and  left  the  chieftain's  tent. 

VI. 

When  he  had  gone,  "  Egregious  fool 

Were  I,  to  yield  to  Prussian  rule  !4 

No,  comrades !    March  we  on  to-night, 

We  soon  shall  join  in  noble  fight, 

And  conquer,  if  our  trust  be  given 

To  our  just  cause  and  righteous  Heaven." 

VII. 

Four  hours  pass,  and  peace  again 
O'er  Clermont  holds  her  quiet  reign, 
Save  when  the  light  breeze,  dancing  round, 
Brings  to  the  ear  a  martial  sound. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Now  o'er  the  plain  it  rises  high, 
Now  doth  it  in  the  distance  die. 
And  now  it  meets  the  ear  again, 
it  cometh  from  that  martial  train, 
Which  Gates  leads  on  with  purpose  high, 
The  foe  to  meet,  subdue,  or  die- 
That  very  night,  that  very  hour, 
Approach  from  Camden  England's  power,® 

VIIL 

The  night,  at  first  serene  and  clear, 
Now  wears  an  aspect  dark  and  drear ; 
The  gust  now  sweeps  in  anger  by, 
Now  in  the  forest  seems  to  sigh, 
Anon  'tis  in  the  distance  howling. 
Like  demon  in  the  darkness  prowling. 
Clouds  of  dark  aspect  through  the  sky, 
Upon  the  fickle  breezes  fly, 
And  as  they  pass,  a  tear-drop  throw 
Upon  that  fated  band  below. 
Anon  a  flash  of  lurid  light 
Illumes  the  darkness  of  the  night ; 


32 


FRANCIS  HERBERT, 


And  when  has  past  the  transient  gleam, 
And  Darkness  doth  still  darker  seem, 
Grim  Thunder,  with  his  iron  voice, 
Seems  in  the  distance  to  rejoice. 

IX. 

But  see !  is  that  the  lightning's  flash  ? 
That  sound !  is  it  the  thunder's  crash  ? 
And  hark !  is  that  a  shout,  a  cry, 
That  on  the  night- wind  rises  high  ? 
Or  is  it  but  the  storm's  rude  breath  ? 
Ah !  'tis  the  harbinger  of  death. 
The  prelude  of  defeat  and  woe, 
They  meet,  at  last  they  meet  the  foe  !• 

X. 

Commences  not  the  battle  yet ; 
'Twas  but  the  vanguard  they  had  met, 

Exchanged  a  passing  shot, 
Then  backward  fell,  took  war's  array, 
And  waited  till  the  beams  of  day 

Should  dawn  upon  the  spot. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

XL 

Oh !  who  is  there  on  earth  can  tell, 
The  thoughts  that  in  the  bosom  swell, 

At  such  a  time  as  this  ? 
The  general  sighs  for  martial  name, 
For  place  upon  the  rolls  of  Fame, 
That  nations  shall  his  honors  claim, 

His  memory  shall  bless. 
The  patriot's  heart,  his  country's  right 
Nerves  for  the  battle,  prompts  to  fight, 

Impels  upon  the  foe. 
But  oft  the  father  fears  to  die, 
And  homeward  sends  affection's  sigh, 
A  tear  of  love  bedews  his  eye, 

His  heart  is  filled  with  woe. 
To  think  that  those  more  dear  than  life, 
May  lose  their  father  in  the  strife, 

No  more  his  care  may  know, 
But  be,  alas !  too  rudely  hurled 
Upon  a  cold  and  heartless  world ! 


34 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


XII. 

But,  War !  remorseless  monster  thou ! 
No  pity  gleams  upon  thy  brow. 
A  father's  cares,  a  father's  grief, 
From  thee  will  seek  in  vain  relief. 
Bright  sunny  youth,  and  hoary  age, 
At  once  are  withered  by  thy  rage, 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  by  thy  rude  breath 
Are  doomed  alike  to  endless  death. 

XIIL 

But  look  ye ;  in  the  eastern  skies 
A  grayish  light  begins  to  rise  ; 

'Tis  herald  of  the  day. 
Now  slowly  doth  the  morning  dawn. 
Revealing  martial  legions  drawn, 

In  battle's  stern  array. 
But  still  so  feeble  is  the  light, 
You'd  think  them  phantoms  of  the  night, 
Till  spread  abroad  the  beams  of  day, 
And  chased  the  shades  of  night  away. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Now  battle  comes.    The  British  right7 
Advances  onward  to  the  fight ; 
And  as  it  comes  a  fearful  cry- 
Reverberates  along  the  sky. 
With  murmur  hoarse  to  battle  rolls 
That  living  tide  of  human  souls, 

Receive  them  now,  ye  brave  ; 
Strike,  strike ;  repel  that  fearful  shock, 
Repel  it  as  the  giant-rock 

Beats  back  the  stormy  wave  ! 
Why  strike  ye  not  ?  ye  cowards,  why  ? 

P    Do  ye  for  freedom  fear  to  die  ? 

Strike ;  ye  are  battling  for  your  right, 
God  be  your  strength  and  truth  your  might 
Does  Liberty  thus  call  in  vain? 
Flee,  flee  then  from  the  battle  plain, 
And  give  not  e'en  a  single  blow, 

.     To  Freedom's,  God's,  your  Country's  foe  ! 
But  gloom,  a  never  ending  gloom 

r  


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  Liberty  shall  shed  no  tear 
Upon  the  dark  dishonored  bier. 
Flee,  flee ;  and  as  ye  headlong  go? 
Be  butchered  by  the  ruthless  foe. 
E'en  now  I  hear  your  piercing  cryr 
Ah !  thought  ye  not  so  soon  to  die ! 


XV, 

But  where  is  he  who  led  them  on  ? 

Say,  has  he  from  the  battle  gone  ? 

Shame,  shame,  and  darkness !  can  it  be7 

That  he  doth  from  the  conflict  flee, 

Who  vaunted  now  of  victory  ? 

So  thou,  O  Gates !  forgettest  now 

The  chaplet  once  that  crowned  thy  brow ; 

Thy  former  laurels  now  decay, 

Their  bloom,  their  freshness  pass  away. 

A  withered  wreathlet  crowns  thy  head, 

Fame's  vision  hath  forever  fled, 

Thy  glory  now  indeed  is  dead ! 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


XVI. 

Two  thirds  of  all  that  host  are  gone, 

The  right  is  on  the  field  alone. 

But  oh,  alas !  ye  gallant  few, 

To  freedom  and  to  valor  true, 

Though  of  the  lightning  be  your  blade, 

Of  adamant  your  sinews  made, 

Although  ye  in  your  bosoms  feel 

Hearts  made  of  flint  or  tempered  steel, 

Although  to  your  success  be  given, 

The  prayer  of  Earth,  the  wish  of  Heaven, 

Yet,  yet  your  efforts  now  are  vain, 

Your  bodies  soon  shall  strew  the  plain, 

And  ye  shall  noble  offering  be 

Upon  the  shrine  of  Liberty. 

This  well  ye  know ;  but  ere  ye  fly, 

Ye  are  resolved  like  men  to  die ! 

XVII. 


Right  onward  to  the  conflict  ride, 
De  Kalb  and  Herbert,  side  by  side. 
I  4 


38 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  in  their  rear  a  scanty  throng 
Of  gallant  spirits  rush  along. 
Now  as  they  join  the  dreadful  rout, 
They  raise  aloft  a  thrilling  shout, 

"  Death,  death  or  victory/5 
The  woods  around  prolong  the  cry, 
It  echoes  through  the  vaulted  sky 

In  fearful  jubilee. 
And  far  beyond  the  battle  plain, 
That  shout  is  heard  and  heard  again, 

"Death,  death  or  victory." 

XVIII. 

The  cannon's  thunder  peals  on  high. 
The  woods,  the  hills,  the  Heavens  reply. 
It  scares  the  wolf  in  western  cave, 
It  thunders  'long  th'  Atlantic  wave, 
And  shakes  the  welkin  o'er  their  head, 
As  troubled  by  a  "giant's  tread." 
Spreads  o'er  the  scene  the  darkling  smoke, 
Is  heard  the  clang  of  sabre-stroke, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  still,  as  on  with  steady  tread 
That  legion  moves  o'er  heaps  of  dead, 
Is  heard  the  shrill,  the  piercing  cry, 
Of  those  who  wounded,  trampled,  die ! 

XIX. 

Short  is  the  strife :  e'en  now  it  fails 
And  echoes  feebly  on  the  gales ; 
The  tramp  of  headlong  host  that  rushed 
To  strife,  is  now  in  silence  hushed ; 
Now  clears  away  the  darkling  smoke ; 
Has  ceased  the  clang  of  sabre-stroke, 
And  now  the  cannon's  pealing  roar 
Is  heard  upon  the  plain  no  more. 

XX. 

'Twas  eve  :  a  neat  pavilion  stood 
Near  to  the  field  of  strife  and  blood ; 
Within  a  dying  soldier  slept, 
And  by  his  side  a  comrade  wept. 
The  dying  man  now  oped  his  eyes, 
And  looked  around  with  mute  surprise ; 


40 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


When  he  the  one  beside  him  saw, 
He  raised  him  from  his  bed  of  straw, 
But  quickly  sank  his  feeble  head, 
And  then  in  whispered  words  he  said  : — 
"  Alas !  what,  Herbert,  dost  thou  here  ? 
Ah !  in  thy  looks  I  read  despair. 
But  speak,  be  quick,  and  freely  tell 
The  worst  that  to  our  band  befell." 

HERBERT. 

"  The  battle,  nobly  fought,  was  lost, 
And  scattered  is  our  gallant  host. 
Few  now  are  captive ;  most  are  dead ; 
Not  one  of  all  the  number  fled. 
They  fought  like  freemen  to  the  last, 
Till  ev'ry  ray  of  hope  was  past." 

DYING  SOLDIER. 

"  Thank  God,  'twas  nobly  done ;  and  I 
Rejoice  although  I  soon  shall  die. 
Ah,  yes !  e'en  now  my  life  is  o'er, 
For  Freedom  I  can  fight  no  more ; 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


But/'  and  he  raised  himself  on  high, 

And  brightly  gleamed  his  sunken  eye, 

"  Go,  tell  your  chief  of  swollen  pride, 

De  Kalb  has  like  a  soldier  died. 

That  when  the  shot  came  thick  and  fast, 

As  hail  from  wintry  tempest  cast, 

When  roared  the  cannon's  thundering  knell, 

And  men  on  men  by  hundreds  fell, 

When  Earth  drank  floods  of  human  gore, 

Till  sated,  it  could  drink  no  more, 

E'en  then  he  left  not  danger's  post, 

For  then  his  arm  was  needed  most." 

He  spent  upon  the  words  his  parting  breath, 

Then  backward  sank  into  the  arms  of  Death. 


2» 
I 


42 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  III. 

1  "  On  Clermont  Falls,"  <f  c. 

Clermont,  or  Rugely's  Mills,  a  small  place  thirteen  miles 
north  of  Camden,  where  General  Gates  was  encamped. 

2  "  Too  sultry  is  the  summer  day." 
To  wit,  the  15th  of  August,  1779. 

3  "  When  northern  laurels  shall  decay , 

Or  change  into  the  Southern  bay" 

This  must  be  considered  a  poetic  license ;  as  tins  remark 
was  not  made  by  De  Kalb,  nor  at  Camden ;  but  by  some 
other  officer,  when  Gates,  in  high  hopes,  was  hastening 
South,  to  take  command  of  the  Southern  army.  There  was, 
however,  a  dispute  between  him  and  De  Kalb,  immediately 
previous  to  the  battle  of  Camden,  concerning  the  policy  of 
some  movement,  in  which  harsh  and  severe  language  was 
used. 

4  it  ~were  j  i0  yield  to  Prussian  rale" 

There  seems  to  be  some  uncertainty  among  historians 
concerning  the  native  land  of  De  Kalb ;  some  calling  him  a 
Prussian,  others  a  German,  and  others  still  a  Pole. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


43 


1  "  That  very  nighty  that  very  hour, 
Approach  from  Camden,  England's  power" 

This  hour  was  ten  o'clock  at  night,  on  the  15th  of 
August.  It  is  rather  singular  that  the  two  opposing  Gene- 
rals should  have  arrived,  the  one  at  Camden,  the  other  at 
Clermont,  on  the  same  day ;  and  still  more  so,  that  they 
should  have  left  them  at  precisely  the  same  hour,  each 
seeking  the  encampment  of  the  other. 

6  "  They  meet,  at  last  they  meet  the  foe." 

"  About  two  in  the  morning  of  the  16th  of  August,  the 
advanced  guards  of  the  hostile  armies  unexpectedly  met  in 
the  woods,  and  the  fire  instantly  began.  This  merely  formed 
a  prelude  to  the  approaching  battle." — Pictorial  History  of 
the  Revolution. 

7  "  Now  battle  comes,  the  British  right 

Advances  onward  to  the  fight." 

"At  dawn  of  day,  Cornwallis  ordered  Lieut.  Colonel 
Webster,  with  the  British  right  wing,  to  attack  the  Ameri- 
can left.  As  Colonel  Webster  advanced,  he  was  assailed 
by  a  desultory  discharge  of  musketry  from  some  volunteer 
militia,  who  had  advanced  in  front  of  their  countrymen ;  but 
the  British  soldiers,  rushing  through  the  loose  fire,  charged 
the  American  line  with  a  shout.  The  militia  instantly  threw 
down  their  arms  and  fled,  many  of  them  without  even  dis- 
charging their  muskets ;  and  all  the  efforts  of  the  officers 


44 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


were  unable  to  rally  them.  A  great  part  of  the  centre  divi- 
sion, composed  of  the  militia  of  North  Carolina,  imitated  the 
example  of  their  comrades  of  Virginia :  few  of  either  divi- 
sion fired  a  shot,  and  still  fewer  carried  their  arms  off  the 
field.  Tarleton,  with  his  legion,  pursued  and  eagerly  cut 
down  the  unresisting  fugitives.  Gates,  with  some  of  the 
militia  general  officers,  made  several  attempts  to  rally  them, 
but  in  vain.  The  farther  they  fled,  the  more  they  dispersed, 
and  Gates  in  despair  hastened  with  a  few  friends  to  Char- 
lotte, eighty  miles  from  the  field  of  battle.  Baron  Be  Kalb, 
at  the  head  of  the  continental  troops,  being  abandoned  by  the 
militia,  which  had  constituted  the  centre  and  left  wing  of  the 
army,  and  being  forsaken  by  the  General  also,  was  exposed 
to  the  attack  of  the  whole  British  army.  De  Kalb  and  his 
troops,  however,  instead  of  imitating  the  example  of  their 
brethren  in  arms,  behaved  with  a  steady  intrepidity,  and  de- 
fended themselves  like  men  The  brave  De  Kalb, 

while  making  a  vigorous  charge  at  the  head  of  a  body  of  his 
men,  fell,  pierced  with  eleven  wounds.  He  was  taken  pri- 
soner, and  met  with  all  possible  attention  and  assistance  from 
the  victorious  enemy,  but  that  gallant  officer  expired  in  a  few 
hours.  Congress  afterward  ordered  a  monument  to  be 
erected  to  his  memory  The  defeat  was  total." — Pic- 
torial History  of  the  Revolution,  p.  330. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


45 


CANTO  IV. 

"  The  course  of  human  life  is  changeful  still, 
As  is  the  fickle  wind  or  wandering  rill." 

I. 

Defeated  by  that  mighty  hand, 

Which  Earth  nor  Heaven  can  withstand, 

The  hireling  band,  before  whose  tread 

The  sons  of  Fredom  basely  fled, 

Have  gone ;  nor  even  one  remains 

Still  to  pollute  our  hallowed  plains. 

The  wounded  lion's  savage  roar 

Now  echoes  through  the  land  no  more. 

But  see !  the  eagle  proudly  soars  on  high, 

And  cleaves  with  fearless  wing  the  cloudless  sky. 

II. 

Now  Liberty,  with  smile  serene, 
Atones  for  all  the  past  hath  been ; 
And  as  the  darkness  clears  away, 
And  brighter  dawns  the  coming  day, 


46 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


There  steals  unto  the  hearts  of  men, 

A  hope,  unknown,  unfelt,  till  then. 

The  wretch,  borne  down  by  selfish  power, 

Now  looks  unto  a  brighter  hour. 

The  heavy-laden  and  opprest 

Rejoice,  and  hope  for  peace  and  rest. 

III. 

Hushed  for  awhile  Despair's  sad  sigh ; 

The  eye  used  but  to  weep,  is  dry. 

Hushed  for  awhile  the  deep-toned  curse, 

Which  Vengeance  speaks  with  murmur  hoarse 

And  hushed  the  mad  and  stifled  groans 

Of  hearts  crushed  down  by  tyrants'  thrones. 

Yea !  these  are  heard  not  now  :  to  thee 

They  look,  thou  Goddess,  Liberty ; 

And  utter  with  a  loud  acclaim, 

As  call  they  on  thy  hallowed  name, 

"  Ah !  tyrants,  tremble,  for  your  power 

Has  seen,  well  nigh,  its  latest  hour. 

Yea !  tremble,  for  your  certain  doom 

Is  written  in  the  future's  gloom. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Your  cursed  thrones  e'en  now  decay, 

They  totter  and  they  must  give  way. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  human  cries 

Have  reached,  have  pierced,  at  length,  the  skie 

And  met  the  ear  of  Him  above, 

The  God  of  Mercy,  Peace  and  Love. 

He  says  that  man,  his  creature,  must 

No  more  ignobly  bite  the  dust, 

But  walk  the  earth,  '  erect  and  free/ 

The  image  of  his  Majesty. 

Yes !  tyrants,  soon  the  time  shall  come, 

When  Peace  shall  smile  on  ev'ry  home ; 

When  all  the  pomp  of  power  and  pride, 

Shall  be  for  ever  cast  aside, 

And  man  shall  tread  this  'earthly  clod5 

1  The-noblest  creature  of  his  God/  " 

IV. 

Blest  Goddess !  may'st  thou  ever  deign 
Upon  this  blood-stained  Earth  to  reign ; 
Still  may'st  thou  keep  thy  place  on  high, 
To  meet  and  gladden  ev'ry  eye ; 


48 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Thy  wings  still  farther,  farther  spread ; 
Shed  peace  on  ev'ry  drooping  head. 
Still,  blissful  rays  of  hope  impart ; 
Still,  heal  the  sore,  desponding  heart, 
Until  to  man  indeed  be  given 
As  much  as  can  be  here  of  Heaven. 
But  still,  O  Goddess !  still,  the  while, 
Most  brightly  on  my  country  smile. 
E'er  may  she  be  among  the  rest, 
At  once,  the  greatest  and  the  best. 
Here  let  thy  vot'ries  ever  dwell, 
Here  let  thy  loudest  anthems  swell ; 
Here  on  Columbia's  hallowed  shore, 
Oh !  be  thy  home  for  evermore ! 

V. 

Time  onward  flies  with  ceaseless  wings, 
And  change  to  men  and  nations  brings. 
Sweet  peace  serene  and  gently  still 
Reigns  on  Columbia's  ev'ry  hill, 
And  quiet  rules  within  that  heart, 
Which  once  had  felt  but  Sorrow's  dart ; 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


49 


Despair,  which  once  had  clothed  the  brow 
With  deepest  gloom,  has  vanished  now. 
The  eye  that  wandered  to  and  fro, 
As  nought  of  quiet  it  could  know, 
But  spoke  the  feelings  of  a  breast 
By  conscience  smitten  and  opprest, 
Is  still ;  and  on  the  manly  face 
Repose's  feeling  you  could  trace, 
Though  by  the  basest  actions  bought, 
And  with  despair  and  danger  fraught. 
Now  as  the  embers  burning  bright 
Diffuse  a  clear  though  mellow  light, 
Throughout  the  room  of  that  same  inn 
Where  he,  some  years  before,  had  been, 
And  as- the  thoughts  came  thick  and  fast 
Upon  the  present  and  the  past, 
'Twas  thus  at  length  that  Herbert  spoke, 
And  on  the  midnight  silence  broke. 

VI. 

"  My  troubles  are  for  ever  past. 
My  spirit  finds  repose  at  last. 

5 


50 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


And  this  once  torn,  distracted  breast, 

Now  feels  again,  from  anguish,  rest. 

Great  God !    To  think  that  four  short  years 

Such  changes  on  its  bosom  bears ! 

This  very  night,  four  years  ago, 

Ah !  who  is  there  on  earth  could  know, 

The  depth  of  my  despair  and  woe! 

Words  never  can  those  feelings  tell, 

My  head  was  fire,  my  bosom  Hell, 

And  on  my  scorching  heart  were  hurled 

The  tortures  of  a  burning  world. 

But  now !  ye  stars  propitious  shine ! 

To-morrow  eve  She  will  be  mine. 

That  thought  could  make  a  demon  smile, 

The  damned  soul  of  pain  beguile. 

Our  hands  no  earthly  power  can  part, 

For  Bertram,  curse  his  fiendish  heart, 

Ah !  he  has  felt  my  vengeful  steel, 

I  saw  him  on  his  charger  reel, 

I  saw  him  fall  upon  the  plain 

Amid  the  wounded  and  the  slain, 

I  saw  him  when  his  spirit  fled, 

Safe  confidants,  I  ween,  the  dead, 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


51 


For  whitening  bones  and  mouldering  dust 
Ne'er  yet  betrayed  a  secret  trust. 

VII. 

But  she,  alas !  the  injured  one, 
Her  griefs  are  o'er,  her  troubles  done. 
In  Heaven  now  she  finds  repose, 
Nor  grieves  for  all  her  earthly  woes. 
Well,  be  it  so.    Since  now  'tis  o'er 
Til  think  upon  the  deed  no  more. 
But  were  it  to  be  done  again 
I'd  sooner  fly  the  haunts  of  men, 
Make  my  abode  in  some  far  cave, 
Where  lions  howl,  and  panthers  rave, 
And  yield  for  ever  Hope  and  Love, 
Than  such  a  heartless  villain  prove. 

VIII. 

It  makes  my  inmost  bosom  bleed, 
This  simple,  plaintive  lay  to  read, 
And  though  my  eye  the  tear  doth  fill, 
I  cannot  help  but  read  it  still. 


52 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


LAY  OF  THE  INJURED  ONE. 

Then  fare  thee  well ;  it  must  be  so. 

Forgotten  is  thy  ev'ry  vow. 
Alas !  that  I  should  ever  know 

A  being  false  and  fair  as  thou. 

The  murmured  vow,  the  whispered  word, 
Which  love  so  full  of  feeling  spoke, 

And  confidence  undoubting  heard, 
Are  like  this  heart,  for  ever  broke. 

Ah !  once  the  world  for  me  was  bright, 
Life  was  of  joy  one  ceaseless  flow. 

Why  didst  thou  turn  that  day  to  night, 
The  stream  of  joy  to  endless  woe  ? 

Alas !  alas  !  I  might  have  known 
That  vision  was  too  bright  to  last.; 

The  golden  dream  at  length  has  flown ; 
My  earthly  hopes  of  peace  are  past. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Farewell,  farewell.    Soon  from  my  eye 
The  light  of  nature  shall  decay ; 

And  none  can  tell  the  reason  why, 
I  thus  from  Earth  shall  pass  away. 

Farewell.    May  guardian  angels  steel 
Thy  soul  'gainst  sorrow's  poignant  dart ; 

Oh !  may'st  thou  ne'er  be  doomed  to  feel 
The  anguish  of  this  aching  heart. 

But  still,  as  thou  canst  ne'el*  forget 

Those  scenes  that  once  to  thee  were  dear ;. 

May  sad  remembrance  sometimes  yet, 
Claim  from  thy  eye  a  pensive  tear. 


IX. 

Shift  we  the  scene.     In  Granville's  hall, 

Responsive  to  the  festal  call, 

A  crowd  of  spirits  light  and  gay 

Have  met  upon  the  close  of  day, 

To  celebrate  the  nuptial  hour 

Of  Herbert  and  of  Camden's  flower ; 


54 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


E'en  now  before  the  priest  they  stand ; 
E'en  now  is  given  the  trembling  hand ; 
E'en  now  is  drawn  that  holy  tie, 
Which  binds  them  till  they  come  to  die. 

X. 

Delightful  scene !  no  darkness  rolls 
Its  shadows  o'er  their  blissful  souls ; 
"  Grim-visaged"  war,  with  fiery  blast, 
Has  now  in  all  its  fury  past ; 
Nor  is  there  now  a  reason  why 
They  should  not  blend  the  kiss  and  sigh ; 
No  cause  which  now  with  rudeness  parts 
Those  loving  and  devoted  hearts. 
No,  no.    They  never  more  must  sever ; 
Now  they  are  blest  indeed  for  ever ! 
Vain  thought !    Enjoy  it  while  ye  may, 
The  vision  soon  must  pass  away ; 
The  future,  now  that  seems  so  fair, 
Conceals  the  darkness  of  despair ; 
Your  bosoms  now  are  free  from  pain, 
They  never  can  be  so  again. 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Your  hearts  may  soon  be  desolate, 
And  ye  may  weep  and  curse  your  fate. 

XL 

The  mirthful  crowd  around  is  hush ; 
See  on  that  cheek  the  crimson  blush ! 
And  hear  her  as  she  murmurs  "  yes," 
Hear  her  the  gentle  flame  confess. 
But  hark!  a  noise  methinks  I  hear ; 
Now,  now  it  plainly  meets  the  ear. 
What  can  it  be  ?  hark !  'tis  the  rage 
Of  lion  burst  from  hated  cage, 
That  prowls  about  in  darkness'  hour, 
Seeking  the  one  he  may  devour. 
Now  sounds  it  nearer.    Look  ye  there ! 
One  from  the  regions  of  despair ! 
Great  God  !  that  grim  and  awful  form ! 
'Tis  darker  than  the  wintry  storm. 
Now  as  it  rushes  through  the  crowd, 
What  words  are  those  it  speaks  aloud  ? 
"  Priest,  hold !  I  charge  thee  to  forbear ; 
I  charge  thee  by  my  own  despair  J 


56 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


I  charge  thee  by  thy  spirit's  weal ; 
By  tortures  which  the  cursed  feel ; 
I  charge  thee  by  the  flames  of  Hell, 
No  more  that  holy  charm  to  tell, 
Which,  with  an  angel  of  the  sky, 
A  devil  from  below  would  tie." 

in. 

Hushed  is  the  priest ;  the  crowd,  amazed 
And  frightened,  on  th'  intruder  gazed, 
Nor  even  one  could  speak  a  word ; 
Transfixed  by  what  they  saw  and  heard. 
But  there  was  one  who  knew  too  well 
This  spectre  from  the  shades  of  Hell. 
And  he !  behold  that  lofty  brow, 
Where  peace  seemed  firmly  seated  now ; 
Oh !  what  a  change !  'tis  pale  as  death, 
He  gasping  seems  for  life  and  breath ; 
His  body  shakes  like  aspen  leaf ; 
What  power  on  Earth  can  give  relief? 

XIII. 

But  see,  his  heart  recovers  now ; 
The  color  comes  unto  his  brow ; 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 

His  wonted  manner  quick  returns ; 
Within  his  eye  fierce  fury  burns ; 
His  troubled  frame  once  more  is  still ; 
His  tongue  obedient  to  his  will. 
"  Ah !  monster,  say,  what  dost  thou  here 
Thou  minister  of  dark  despair ; 
Back,  back,  I  say,  to  thine  own  Hell, 
And  there  with  fiends  and  devils  dwell.5' 
He  forward  starts ;  but  with  a  frown 
That  would  have  awed  a  lion  down, 
And  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand, 
That  fiery  spirits  might  command, 
The  spectre  spoke  :  in  frightened  mood, 
The  trembling  crowd,  around  it  stood, 
And  listened  with  attentive  ear, 
To  catch  those  words  of  dread  and  fear ; 
And  Herbert,  pride  and  spirit  crushed, 
Stood  now  before  this  spectre,  hushed. 

XIV. 

?Twas  thus  it  spoke  :  "With  cruel  art, 
That  villain  crushed  a  loving  heart ; 


58 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


Herself  she  yielded  to  his  arms, 

As  harmless  dove  to  viper's  charms; 

Her  virtue  and  her  honor  lost, 

Those  things  which  maidens  prize  the  m 

For  which  alone  is  being  dear ; 

She  pined  away,  sank  on  her  bier, 

A  victim  to  the  infernal  plan 

Of  yonder  base  intriguing  man. 

His  was  the  foul,  the  trait'rous  hand, 

Which  wielded  well  the  deadly  brand, 

That  left  me  on  the  battle  plain ; 

He  thought  I  ne'er  would  rise  again. 

But,  coward,  know,  'twas  destined  not 

Thy  baseness  e'er  should  be  forgot. 

Fate  raised  me  from  my  bloody  bed ; 

Fate  lifted  up  my  feeble  head ; 

Fate  willed  that  I  should  thus  destroy 

Thy  earthly  hopes,  thy  dreams  of  joy. 

Oft  when  thou  thought'st  no  mortal  nigh 

I've  watched  thee  with  Revenge's  eye ; 

Like  spectre  from  the  shades  below, 

Where'er  thou  went'st  there  I  would  go 


FRANCIS  HERBERT. 


59 


And  oft  when  urged  by  frenzy  on, 
The  fatal  weapon  has  been  drawn ; 
Again  I'd  place  it  in  its  sheath, 
For  hate  is  sated  not  by  death, 
Unless  when  hearts  are  beating  high, 
And  hope  dawns  on  the  raptured  eye ; 
I  waited  for  a  time  like  this, 
When  all  was  bright  with  heavenly  bliss. 
The  wished-for  hour  has  come  at  last ; 
False  villain,  now  I  have  thee  fast ; 
And  thus  cut  short,  aye,  even  so, 
The  bliss  which  thou  should'st  never  know. 
He  stabs  him.    See,  the  purple  blood 
Now  gushes  forth  in  swelling  flood ; 
The  victim  falls  upon  the  floor ; 
Bertram  is  gone  and  seen  no  more. 


END  OF  FRANCIS  HERBERT* 


GO 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK.* 

Time  in  its  ceaseless  course  rolls  on, 
And  men  and  nations,  one  by  one, 

Are  swept  before  its  flood. 
Of  cities  which  have  splendid  been, 
No  wreck  or  monument  is  seen, 

To  tell  where  they  have  stood. 
And  man  must  in  his  grave  decay, 
When  he  has  lived  his  little  day 

Of  evil  or  of  good. 

Imperial  Rome,  who  fiercely  hurled 
Her  bolts  of  thunder  o'er  the  world, 

*  About  thirteen  miles  below  the  town  of  Wilmington,  N.  C. 
on  the  Western  bank  of  the  river  Cape  Fear,  are  the  remains  of 
a  town  formerly  known  by  the  name,  Brunswick.  It  was  the 
seat  of  the  Colonial  Government,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been 
burned  by  the  British  in  the  war  of  the  Revolution.  The  walls 
of  the  old  church,  and  a  few  mouldering  slabs  of  monumental 
marble,  are  all  of  its  ruins  which  are  now  visible. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK, 

Who  held  the  nations  in  her  hand, 
And  laws  for  ev'ry  mortal  planned, 

Has  sunk  into  decay. 
And  Athens,  who  with  classic  light 
Dispelled  dark  Ignorance's  night, 
And  taught  the  world  what  man  might  be, 
When  Learning's  joined  to  Liberty — - 

She  too  has  passed  away. 
No  human  thing  shall  ever  last ; 
The  present  shall  be  like  the  past ; 
And  as  "  Old  Time*'  on  swiftly  flies, 
And  new-born  generations  rise, 
To  them  our  country  must  become, 
That  which  to  us  are  Greece  and  Rome. 
Oh !  melancholy  is  the  thought, 
That  this  fair  land,  so  dearly  bought 
By  life-blood  of  the  free,  the  brave, 
Should  sink  'neath  time's  o'erwhelming  wave 
That  darkness  here  should  ever  reign, 
Or  tyrants  hold  their  sway  again. 
But  truth  why  should  we  e'er  disguise, 
Or  from  it  turn  unwilling  eyes  ? 


6 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


This  motto's  written  on  the  past, 
No  human  thing  shall  ever  last. 

The  shades  of  evening  slowly  spread 
Upon  the  grave-stones  of  the  dead, 
And  on  the  church's  mould'ring  wall, 
Which  of  thee  are,  Old  Brunswick,  all. 
With  sad  and  contemplative  air, 
A  youth  and  lovely  maid  were  there ; 
In  silence  for  awhile  they  stood, 
And  seemed  upon  the  past  to  brood ; 
The  youth  at  length  the  silence  broke, 
And  thus  with  saddened  accent  spoke : 
"  Old  Brunswick !  long  thy  day  has  fled, 
Thou  now  art  numbered  with  the  dead ; 
That  certain  doom  thou  long  hast  met, 
Which  waits  us  all,  yet  all  forget. 
Bleak  moss  thy  ruins  gathers  o'er, 
And  soon  thou  shalt  be  seen  no  more ; 
Oblivion  soon  must  on  thee  fall, 
And  in  its  gloom  envelope  all ; 
Thyself,  thy  very  name  must  be 
Lost  in  the  past  Eternity ! 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


63 


Old  Ruin !  bleak,  alone,  forgot, 

Thou  art  a  type  of  human  lot. 

However  honored  man  may  be, 

However  great  his  mirth,  his  glee^ 

Although  on  fame's  own  wing  he  rise 

In  glorious  triumph  to  the  skies, 

He  sinks  at  last  into  the  tomb, 

And  shares  with  thee  thy  lonely  gloom. 

Once,  who  e'er  thought  'twould  be  thy  lot. 

To  be  thus  lonely  and  forgot  ? 

Where  now  is  nought  but  barren  earth, 

Resounded  once  the  song  of  mirth ; 

Where  roams  yon  beast,  or  sings  yon  bird. 

The  hum  of  busy  men  was  heard  ; 

Where  stands  that  solitary  wood, 

A  prince's  stately  palace  stood ; 

The  cedar  and  the  oak  have  sprung^ 

Where  once  the  lay  of  love  was  sung. 

Perhaps  the  timid  suitor  there 

Has  to  his  mistress  breathed  a  prayer^ 

And  sworn  that  he  would  be  to  her 

An  everlasting  worshipper. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


But  all  remains  of  life  are  gone, 
And  thou  art  dreary  and  alone." 

The  maiden  heaved  a  mournful  sigh, 
A  tear  stood  in  her  pensive  eye. 
"  Forgive  me,  Henry,  never  here 
Should  I  at  least  have  shed  a  tear ; 
For  here  it  was  you  breathed  the  prayer 
Of  love,  and  lasting  truth  did  swear ; 
Twas  here  that  I  at  first  confessed 
The  love  for  thee  that  swayed  my  breast." 
She  blushed,  "  and  if  I  must  confess, 
?Twas  here  commenced  my  happiness. 
Forgive  me  now ;  that  tear  was  shed 
In  mem'ry  of  departed  dead." 

"  Forgive  thee !  I  do  not,  as  yet, 
That  vow  which  here  I  made  forget ; 
That  all  my  heart  and  soul  should  be 
Devoted,  my  dear  girl,  to  thee. 
But  come ;  you  always  lov'd  to  con 
Inscriptions  on  sepulchral  stone ; 


OLD  BRUNSWICEo 


Look  at  that  broken  marble  there ; 
See  what  a  stern  and  awful  prayer ! 
4  Whoe'er  shall  take  this  stone  away, 
Oh !  may  he  live  to  see  the  day, 
When  he  shall  dwell  on  Earth  alone, 
His  friends  and  all  his  kindred  gone.'* 
It  makes  me  shudder.    Fearful  curse ! 
Oh !  what  could  in  this  world  be  worse ! 
What  would  this  life,  this  planet  be, 
My  Carry,  if  deprived  of  thee ! 
That  monument,  so  simple  there, 
May  well  elicit  Pity's  tear ; 
It  tells  a  tale  of  humble  pride, 
*  The  twelfth  of  March  a  Frenchman  died.' 
From  his  own  father-land  he'd  come, 
To  find  him  here  a  happy  home. 
But  Fate  upon  him  sternly  frowned ; 
His  home  was  in  the  humid  ground ; 
His  comrades  bitter  tears  did  shed, 
When  'neath  the  turf  they  placed  his  head. 


*  The  inscription  is  in  Latin.  "  Quisquis  hoc  marmor 
tulerit,  ultimus  suorum  periat." 

6# 


66 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


But  well  they  knew  that  his  poor  name, 

No  sigh  from  kindred  hearts  would  claim ; 

They  thought  the  stranger  passing  by, 

Would  on  it  turn  a  listless  eye, 

So  with  a  cross  they  marked  the  spot, 

Where  his  neglected  ruins  rot; 

And  on  it  wrote  with  humble  pride, 

€  The  twelfth  of  March  a  Frenchman  died.'  "# 

"  'Tis  sad  indeed,  that  simple  tale ; 

Alas !  who  knows  how  oft  the  gale 

Was  burdened  with  a  mother's  wail ! 

How  oft  a  loving  sister  sighed 

For  him  who  far  away  had  died, 

When  weeks,  and  months,  and  years  rolled  on, 

And  all  their  cherished  hopes  were  gone. 

But  Henry  come  and  seat  thee  here, 

And  if  thou'lt  lend  a  willing  ear, 

*  The  Cross  is  composed  of  two  shingles.  It  must  therefore 
necessarily  soon  pass  away.  And  there  will  then  be  nothing 
left  to  mark  the  spot,  where  sleep  the  remains  of  the  humble 
adventurer,  whose  fate  it  was  to  die  far  away  from  the  home 
of  his  affections. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


I'll  tell  a  story  which  I've  heard, 
Once  in  this  lonely  place  occurred. 
However,  'twas  not  lonely  then. 
For  'twas  the  haunt  of  busy  men. 

Caroline's  story* 

There  was  a  girl,  perverse  and  wild, 
A  wealthy  merchant's  only  child. 
She  had  a  high  and  noble  soul, 
But  yielded  never  to  control, 
Save  of  caprice,  whose  fickle  sway 
Did  often  lead  her  steps  astray ; 
Her  eyes  of  jetty  hue  were  bright, 
But  sparkled  with  unearthly  light ; 
Her  face,  all-beauteous  and  refined, 
Gave  token  of  a  lofty  mind ; 
But  to  observing  eye  it  told, 
'Twas  of  a  strange  uncommon  mould. 

An  Indian  chieftain  of  the  west, 
Was  of  her  father  once  a  guest ; 
Though  young  as  yet,  he  bore  a  name, 
Which  had  not  been  '  unknown  to  fame  ' 


68 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


Ill  battle  his  brave  father  died, 
While  he  was  fighting  by  his  side ; 
And  when  he  saw  that  father  slain?. 
He  vowed  he  ne'er  would  rest  again, 
No !  by  that  soul  which  now  had  fled 
To  the  blest  mansions  of  the  dead, 
By  all  the  bliss  he  wished  to  see 
In  that  all-bright  Eternity, 
Wherever  roams  the  timid  deer, 
And  great  unbounded  forests  arer 
By  noble  chief's  unbroken  word, 
And  by  his  father's  hallowed  swordT 
His  vengeance  he  would  ne'er  delay,, 
Until  should  come  that  glorious  day, 
When  that  accursed  people  gone, 
There  should  not  of  the  whole  be  one 
To  tell  the  sad  and  mournful  tale, 
Or  their  unlucky  fate  bewaiL 
Then  to  the  conflict  rushed  he  ony 
And  soon  the  fearful  combat  won. 
He  to  his  awful  oath  was  true, 
And  did  that  scattered  tribe  pursue, 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


Till  none  his  fearful  vengeance  fled, 
And  all  were  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Silent  and  moody  was  the  chiefs 

As  if  he  suffered  secret  grief, 

Save  when  the  wayward  maid  was  nigh. 

Then  passion  kindled  in  his  eye ; 

Or  if  of  warlike  deeds  he  told, 

Of  battle  fierce,  achievement  bold, 

She  then  with  fond  attention  hung 

Upon  the  accents  of  his  tongue ; 

And  if  his  ardor  kindled  high. 

And  fire  shot  from  his  gleaming  eye, 

Then  did  her  bosom  warmly  glow, 

And  heaved  her  swelling  breast  of  snow. 

At  length  the  youthful  chief  departs ; 
Say  does  it  grieve  these  wayward  hearts 
One  word  he  whispers  in  her  ear, 
Then  glistens  in  her  eye  a  te^r ; 
He  slowly  shakes  her  hand,  and  then 
Departs ;  will  he  return  again  ? 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


When  he  had  gone,  with  manner  wild,. 
The  maid  her  lonely  days  beguiled ; 
Now  with  her  spirits  light  and  gay, 
She'd  sing  some  quick  and  sprightly  lay, 
And  now  with  saddened  note  prolong 
The  cadence  of  a  mournful  song. 

Six  months  have  passed;  'tis  twelve  at  night 
Whence  comes  that  yellow,  gleaming  light? 
The  pallid  moon  has  long  gone  down, 
And  darkness  settled  on  the  town. 
What  are  those  spectres,  dusk  and  brown  ? 
Whence  comes  that  dark  and  rolling  wreath 
Which  trembles  in  the  night- wind's  breath  I 
Say,  is  it  not  the  pall  of  death  ? 
Look  at  that  bright  and  glowing  spire. 
See !  now  it  rises  higher,  higher, 
It  is,  oh !  yes,  it  is  of  fire  I 

Ye  wretches  now  that  sweetly  sleep.. 
How  long  shall  ye  your  slumbers  keep  ? 
Too  soon  ye'll  ope  your  haggard  eye, 
Start  up,  rush  forth,  and  scream,  and  die. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


Ye  dream  not  now  destruction's  near, 
But  British  heart  and  sword  are  there ; 
Ye  babes  that  do  so  calmly  rest, 
Like  cherubs  on  your  mothers'  breast, 
E'en  innocence  they  will  not  spare, 
The  awful  doom  ye  too  must  share. 

And  now  the  flames  rush  on  amain, 
Who  shall  their  fearful  wrath  restrain  ? 
The  winds  let  loose  from  out  their  cave, 
Amid  the  burnings  fiercely  rave, 
And  hurl  the  brightly-beaming  brand 
Far  on  the  rolling  river's  strand. 

But  see !  far  down  the  glowing  tides, 
A  boat  upon  the  water  rides ; 
Like  lightning  o'er  the  wave  it  flies ; 
Who  is  it  thus  that  hither  hies  ? 
And  now,  lo !  as  'tis  growing  near, 
The  gleaming  tomahawk  and  spear, 
Behold,  the  Indian  chief  is  there. 

The  boat  no  sooner  strikes  the  strand, 
Than  with  one  bound  he's  on  the  land. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK, 


And  think  you,  then  he  pauses  there  ? 
Ah !  no,  with  fleetness  of  the  deer, 
He  hastens  through  the  frightened  crowd, 
'Mid  screams  of  terror  long  and  loud ; 
And  now  he  enters  at  that  door, 
Where  he  had  often  been  before. 


He  rushes  through  the  smoke  and  flame, 
He  calls  upon  his  loved  one's  name ; 
She  answers  not :  the  flames  apace 
Career  upon  their  desperate  race. 
He  can,  he  must  no  longer  wait, 
Or  else  is  done  the  work  of  fate. 


But  hark !  amid  his  doubts,  his  fears, 
A  shrill  and  sudden  scream  he  hears, 
'Twas  hers  he  loved ;  those  accents  fell 
Upon  his  soul  like  notes  from  Hell ; 
They  told  'tis  true  his  Love  was  there, 
But  curdled  at  his  heart  Despair. 
He  vacant  looks,  but  hope  returns, 
Although  the  flame  with  fury  burns. 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


73 


And  now  he  starts,  see !  he  has  gone, 
To  seek  that  loved  and  loving  one. 
He  finds  her — oh !  they  meet,  they  meet, 
They  rush  together  for  the  street ; 
He  takes  her  by  her  slender  waist, 
f  Come,  my  beloved,  haste  thee,  haste, 

Here  is  the  door,  and  now'  but  death, 

Stern  death,  cut  short  his  fleeting  breath ; 
The  roof  with  fearful  crash  fell  in, 
One  scream  was  heard  above  the  din, 
Then  all  was  silent. 

On  the  ground 
Two  whitened  skeletons  were  found, 
Locked  in  one  long  and  last  embrace ; 
They're  buried  in  that  humble  place." 
She  pointed  to  a  lonely  tomb, 
Appearing  dimly  through  the  gloom. 

The  pair  have  gone ;  upon  the  hill 
Is  heard  the  plaintive  whip-poor-will ; 
The  cricket,  with  its  mournful  voice, 
Seems  in  the  ruins  to  rejoice; 

7 


74 


OLD  BRUNSWICK. 


The  hootings  of  the  nightly  bird, 
Are  faintly  in  the  distance  heard ; 
And  gloomy  darkness  settles  down, 
Upon  the  old,  deserted  town. 


KOBERT  AND  ANNA. 


75 


ROBEBT  AND  ANNA. 

Twas  night ;  the  world  was  wrapt  in  sleep, 
And,  slowly  wheeling  from  the  deep, 

Arose  the  silver  moon ; 
The  stilly  sea,  the  quiet  sky, 
In  witching  beauty  seemed  to  vie, 

The  sea  with  diamonds  shone ; 
And  all  the  tints  of  tender  hue, 
Which  ever  skilful  artist  knew, 

Or  Taste  herself  deemed  rare, 
Were  now  in  sweet  confusion  blent 
Around  the  moon,  as  on  she  went 

Upon  her  soft  career. 

A  ship  upon  the  swelling  tides 
Of  Ocean's  bosom  calmly  rides  ; 

No  breezes  fill  her  sails. 
The  Zephyr  now  is  e'en  at  rest, 
Locked  in  the  chambers  of  the  West, 

And  there  all  lonely  wails. 


76 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA, 


The  ship  is  noble,  and  on  high, 
Shoot  its  huge  timbers  to  the  sky, 

Of  all  it  monarch  seems. 
Are  on  its  deck  two  beings  now, 
No  shade  of  sadness  clouds  their  brow; 

And  neither  even  dreams 
That  that  which  now  is  silent  all, 
As  of  the  grave  the  funeral  pall, 
May  into  dreadful  fury  swell, 
As  surges  from  the  gulf  of  Hell ; 
And  that  which  did  so  heavenly  seem, 
Be  like  a  vision  or  a  dream. 

And  happy  they,  that  they  may  not 
Have  knowledge  of  their  future  lot ; 
For  could  to  man  those  ills  appear, 
Which  ever  wait  upon  him  here, 
Bright  hope  would  wing  eternal  flight, 
And  life  be  but  a  wintry  night. 

But  so  it  is ;  no  visions  now 

Of  darkened  future,  cloud  their  brow ; 

Their  hearts  as  free  from  care, 
As  seagull  poised  upon  his  wings, 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


Or  linnet  as  he  blithely  sings 
In  the  fresh  morning  air. 

But  hark !    A  soft  melodious  strain 
Comes  gently  floating  o'er  the  main. 

It  wakes  the  soul  to  hear ; 
It  seems  the  soft,  enchanting  note 
Of  seraph  who,  her  home  forgot, 
Charmed  by  the  beauty  of  the  spot, 

A  moment  lingers  there. 
The  nightingale  himself  were  mute. 
Could  he  but  hear  that  magic  lute ; 
The  mocking-bird  or  linnet  gay 
Would  drop  at  once  his  warbled  lay, 
And  ev'ry  heart,  awake  at  once, 
Must  to  the  minstrel  give  response. 

SONG. 

Upon  the  "  ocean's  wave"  I  roam, 

Far  from  my  happy  childhood's  home ; 

The  forest  wild,  the  wood-land  green, 

By  me  are  now  no  longer  seen. 

7# 


78 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


The  lark  there  sings  his  merry  lay, 

All  nature  is  as  ever  gay, 

And  I  indeed  am  blithe  as  they, 

For  while  my  Robert's  true  to  me, 
What  could  I  else  than  happy  be  ? 

The  youth  was  standing  by  her  side, 
And  in  his  face  beamed  joy  and  pride. 
Her  hand  he  seized,  and  to  his  heart 
It  pressed  :  "  My  Anna,  shall  we  part 
In  this  wide  world  ?"  he  cried,  "  Oh !  never, 
Till  death  himself  our  hearts  shall  sever. 
But  sing,  it  makes  my  spirits  light, 
And  seems  to  suit  this  fairy  night/' 

SONG  CONTINUED. 

We  plough  the  deep  and  trackless  sea, 
And  we  may  soon  or  later  be 
Lone  strangers  in  an  unknown  land ; 
Near  us  may  be  no  helping  hand ; 
Far,  far  from  home  and  its  sweet  cheer, 
A  mother's  voice  we  will  not  hear, 
No  smiling  friends  will  greet  us  there. 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


79 


But  while  my  Robert's  true  to  me, 
What  could  I  else  than  happy  be  ? 

Ah !  little  then  imagined  they, 
Who  sang  and  heard  this  tender  lay, 
That  this  fair  scene,  with  hope  so  bright, 
Would  turn  to  darkness  of  the  night ; 
That  hearts  then  warm  would  soon  be  cold, 
These  moments  be  like  "  tale  that's  told/' 
And  that  this  fond  and  loving  strain 
Was  destined  ne'er  to  wake  again. 

The  scene  is  changed.    Far  in  the  West, 
The  Sun  fast  seeks  his  nightly  rest, 

The  sky's  no  longer  clear; 
For  grum  and  lazy-rolling  clouds, 
The  furious  storm-god's  sable  shrouds, 
Are  floating  slowly  there ; 
The  vessel  is  no  longer  still ; 
Her  canvass  gentle  breezes  fill, 

And  slowly  moves  she  on ; 
But  soon  the  clouds  shall  darker  grow, 
The  winds  shall  soon  more  fiercely  blow, 

Her  race  is  well  nigh  done. 


80 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


The  sea-bird  whirls  in  airy  ring, 
Or  rests  himself  upon  his  wing ; 
Anon  do  meet  th'  enraptured  view, 
Like  spectres  in  the  wraters  blue, 
Monsters  uncouth,  as  onward  they 
Dart  quickly  on  their  heedless  prey; 
The  porpoise  now  doth  rise  on  high, 
Seems  but  to  view  the  sea  and  sky, 
To  rest  one  moment  on  the  main, 
To  breathe,  and  then  go  down  again. 

Upon  the  deck  in  silence  are 
That  loving  and  devoted  pair ; 
Their  wond'ring  eyes  are  turned  upon 
The  glories  of  the  setting  sun ; 
The  clouds  reflect  the  garish  ray 
Of  the  descending  king  of  day; 
They  o'er  the  sea  in  beauty  throw 
A  bright,  aerial,  crimson  glow, 
And  all  the  rarest  tints  of  Heaven, 
Seem  now  in  rich  profusion  given. 

The  youth  as  from  a  dream  awakes, 
And  says,  as  Anna's  hand  he  takes, 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


"  If  always  thus  the  skies  appear, 
With  thee  I'd  dwell  for  ever  here ; 
With  what  unmixed  and  pure  delight, 
I'd  gaze  on  scenes  thus  ever  bright, 
And  what  unceasing  pleasure  have, 
Thus  roaming  o'er  the  mountain  wave 
But  still  my  joy  is  mixed  with  fear, 
For  truly  God  himself  is  here." 

"  I  too,"  she  said,  "  would  gladly  stay, 
Like  this  were  ev'ry  other  day ; 
But  all  this  splendor  soon  will  fade, 
And  into  darkness  be  decayed. 
E'en  now,  see,  as  the  Sun  goes  down, 
Those  colors  fade  from  red  to  brown, 
And  all  the  waters  soon  will  be 
Wrapt  in  profound  obscurity. 
It  seems  an  emblem  fit  of  life, 
With  all  its  toils  and  ceaseless  strife ; 
Those  very  things  which  give  it  light. 
Do  render  doubly-dark  its  night." 

But  she  these  words  had  scarcely  spok 
When  on  them  quick  her  lover  broke  : 


82 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


"  Hush !  see,"  he  said,  "  the  lightning's  flash, 
And  hear  the  thunder's  awful  crash ! 
Thou  tremblest  Anna,  dost  thou  fear  ? 
Then  come,  we  must  not  tarry  here." 

The  Sun  has  found  his  nightly  rest, 
And  wrapt  in  darkness  is  the  West. 
A  calm  o'er  Nature's  reigning  now, 
But  sterner  grows  the  storm-god's  brow ; 
He  soon  his  banners  will  unfurl, 
And  on  the  deep  dread  tempests  hurl. 

For  now,  the  clouds  begin  to  roll 
From  East  to  West,  from  Pole  to  Pole ; 
The  thunder  speaks  with  awful  voice, 
The  waves  in  angry  glee  rejoice  ; 
The  winds  with  savage  fury  howl, 
Like  wolves  around  the  dead  that  prowl ; 
Black  darkness  now  is  reigning  there 
Such  as  "  th'  Eternal  shall  wear," 
Save  when  the  trebly-forked  levin 
Far  flashes  'long  the  vault  of  Heaven.  » 

There  comes  one  long  and  lurid  gleam, 
Oh !  whence  that  agonizing  scream  ? 


ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 


83 


Death  tears  two  loving  souls  apart, 

That  scream  was  wrung  from  Anna's  heart ; 

But  yield  not  thus  to  useless  grief, 

The  Tyrant's  self  will  give  relief. 

The  waves  with  doubled  fury  swell, 

More  fiercely  blows  the  howling  gale, 

Fast  and  more  fast  the  lightnings  flash, 

And  louder  is  the  thunder's  crash. 

Ah !  noble  ship,  too  strong  for  thee, 

Thou'lt  soon  go  down  beneath  the  sea ; 

All  mould'ring  there,  thou  soon  shalt  rot ; 

Thy  very  name  must  be  forgot. 

E'en  now  thy  giant  masts  do  creak, 

And  oh,  alas !  they  break,  they  break ; 

Thy  huge  and  mighty  timbers  groan; 

I  see  them  not !  where  have  they  gone  ? 

I  hear  a  keen  heart-rending  wail, 

Or  was't  the  moaning  of  the  gale  ? 

Ah !  no.    'Twas  wrung  by  grim  Despair, 

From  one  fond  heart  that  perished  there ! 

That  ship  went  down  amid  the  tempest's  roar, 

And  it  shall  roam  the  boundless  deep  no  more ! 


84  ROBERT  AND  ANNA. 

In  real  life,  when  hopes  are  high, 
And  all  anticipations  bright, 

Dull  Sorrow's  cloud  may  dim  your  sky, 
And  turn  your  fairest  day  to  night. 


A  VISION. 


85 


A  VISION. 

Upon  my  eyelids  "  balmy  sleep"  did  fall, 
And  Fancy,  the  Enchantress,  as  I  slept, 
Did  o'er  me  wave  her  fascinating  wand ; 
And  phantoms  strange  and  visions  wonderful 
Before  me  flitted.    Long-departed  friends 
In  form  as  once  they  were,  around  me  stood, 
Locked  me  in  their  embrace,  my  hand  did  press 
In  friendship's  grasp,  and  spake  of  other  days. 

A  sister,  from  whose  eye  the  light  of  life 
Has  gone,  in  tenderness  unspeakable 
Upon  me  smiled,  and  on  my  lips  she  pressed 
Affection's  ardent  kiss. 

I  stood  again 
Beside  her  whom  I  once  had  loved,  but  loved 
In  vain.    She  seemed  on  me  to  smile,  as  she 
Had  erst-times  done,  and  bid  the  flow'r  of  hope 
8 


86 


A  VISION. 


Spring  up  and  blossom  in  my  heart.    And  life 
Again  was  bright,  and  sunshine  gladdened  all 
My  future  sky.    But  oh !  there  was  a  change. 
The  smile  departed  from  that  brow ;  a  frown 
Usurped  its  place.    She  waved  her  angry  hand  ; 
The  flower  of  hope  was  withered,  and  the  fruit 
It  bare,  did  "  turn  to  ashes  on  my  lips." 
She  faded  from  my  view,  and  left  to  me 
A  blank  the  present,  all  the  past  a  dream, 
The  future  all  a  dismal  wilderness. 
Pale  spectres  of  departed  scenes  did  flit 
Around  and  whisper  in  my  ear  of  joys 
Now  gone,  and  that  too  to  return  no  more, 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream." 

Strains  of  enchanting  music,  sweet  and  soft, 

Far  softer  than  the  dying  echoes  of 

"  Music  on  water"  from  the  distance  borne, 

Did  "  creep  into  my  ears,"  and  lull  my  soul 

Into  a  quiet  calm.    It  was  the  sound 

Which  gentle  Zephyrs  make,  and  purling  streams 

As  gently  on  they  glide  o'er  pebbly  beds, 


A  VISION. 


87 


And  mix  their  murmurs  with  the  mellow  notes, 
Which  feathered  minstrels  warble  forth. 

I  raised 

My  eyes  and  looked,  and  lo !  the  scene  was  fair. 
A  vale  of  beauty  indescribable 
Before  me  spread ;  and  where  I  stood  was  bright 
With  that  soft,  pure,  and  mellow  lustre  which 
The  burnished  drapery  of  Apollo's  couch, 
On  Nature  slumbering  in  the  eventide, 
Doth  spread.   And  birds  of  fairest  plumage  there, 
Did  carol  forth  in  Nature's  glee  their  song. 
And  flowers  of  brightest  bloom  therein  did  grow- 
In  rich  luxuriance.    The  lily  there 
Did  raise  her  gentle  head,  and  bow  her  form 
In  modest  grace,  whene'er  the  playful  breeze 
Came  by  and  stole  from  her  a  kiss.    The  thorn 
And  thistle  did  not  flourish  there.    And  not 
As  yet  had  all  the  sordid  cares  and  low 
Pursuits  of  man  upon  it  placed  their  blight. 
Far,  far  away  was  all  the  din  and  noise 
Of  his  tumultuous  passions,  fiend-like, 
Strong  and  fierce,  o'er  which  the  "  angels  weep,' 


88 


A  VISION. 


And  which  himself  a  ruined  wreck  do  leave 
Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  surges  of 
Eternity's  drear  ocean. 

By  the  side 
Of  this  fair  vale  arose  a  mountain,  steep* 
Precipitous,  and  rugged.    On  its  brow 
A  temple,  in  proportions  beautiful, 
Did  rear  its  stately  head ;  and  on  it  Fame 
In  characters  of  burnished  gold  was  writ. 
This  fane  around,  halos  of  Happiness, 
Of  glory  and  contentment  played. 

A  youth 

Beneath  its  base  did  stand,  and  upward  look 
With  eager  eyes.    And  in  his  face  did  glow 
The  brilliancy  of  Genius'  fire.    The  pride 
Of  manly  beauty  was  upon  him,  and 
The  stern  resolve  of  manly  daring  sat 
Upon  his  brow,  and  Hope  had  there  her  seat. 

He  upward  looked,  and  upward  he  began 
The  steep  ascent  to  climb.    He  toiled  until 
His  limbs  waxed  faint,  and  on  his  noble  brow 
The  sweat  in  torrents  broke.    He  feeble  seemed, 


A  VISION. 


His  steps  did  totter,  and  it  now  appeared 

That  he  must  fall.    But  up  again  he  looked. 

A  being  bright,  in  robes  of  Heaven  clad, 

His  gaze  bewildered  caught.  She  seemed  to  smile, 

And  then  to  beck  him  on.    He  too  did  smile, 

And  then  did  once  again  the  stern  resolve 

Of  manly  daring  cross  his  brow.  Again 

He  struggled  on,  and  her  at  length  he  reached. 

He  knelt  him  down  before  her,  and  her  hand 

He  pressed  unto  his  lips.    Then  for  awhile 

Together  they  conversed. 

He  turned  him  round 
And  what  a  change  was  there !    Bright  hope  had 
fled.  - 

Despair  upon  his  brow,  in  characters 

Too  legible,  was  writ,  and  agony 

Had  cast  her  dreary  shadows  there.    His  frame 

In  one  convulsive  tremor  shook.    He  fell, 

And  o'er  the  scene  came  darkness  visible. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream." 
The  vale  which  I  before  had  seen,  was  now 
Before  me.    Neither  darkness  nor  the  light, 
8* 


90 


A  VISION. 


Which  formerly  it  wore,  was  on  it  now ; 
But  twilight  such  as  ushers  in  the  night. 

1  looked,  and  lo !  a  man  infirm  and  old, 
Before  me  stood.    It  was  the  youth  whom  I 
Had  seen.    His  form  was  bowed  beneath  the 
weight 

Of  years.    His  eye  was  vacant,  and  his  cheek 
Was  hollow.    Many  furrows  on  his  brow 
"  Old  Time"  had  ploughed.    The  hand  of  death 
was  laid 

Upon  him.    Gentle  breezes  fanned  his  cheeks, 
And  waved  his  snowy  hair.    His  lips  did  move, 
And  from  them  came  a  feeble  voice  :  "  And  I 
Have  lived  my  life  out.    Yes !  the  sands  which 
mark 

My  fleeting  stay  on  Earth,  are  nearly  run. 
And  when  through  memory's  vista  I  do  look 
Upon  the  past,  what  scene  is  there  ?    A  blank, 
A  desert,  over  which  the  Monsoon's  breath 
In  fiery  course  hath  swept.    A  wilderness, 
Such  as  the  angry  elements  do  leave, 


A  VISION 


91 


When  they  have  ceased  their  conflict  and  their 
rage. 

And  my  poor  heart,  the  flame  that  scorched  it 
once, 

Is  gone.    But  it  is  seared  and  blighted.    Ah ! 
Could  I  but  live  my  life  again — but  no. 
My  time's  for  ever  past.    The  seal  of  fate 
Is  on  me,  and  I  go.    My  wonder  is, 
That  I  have  stayed  so  long.    And  now  farewell9 
Ye  scenes  of  earth,  farewell/'  His  eyes  he  turned 
To  Heaven  up,  and  sank  upon  the  Earth. 
Black  darkness  from  above  came  down,  such  as 
The  night  of  nights  shall  wear.    I  dreamed  no 
more. 

But  I  awoke  to  think  how  oft  fair  hopes, 
Ambition  honorable,  prospects  bright, 
Are  crushed  at  once  by  thwarted  love,  and  what 
A  wreck  it  leaves  the  heart  that  once  was  gay. 


MINOKA. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  BURTON.* 


Hark !  hark !  a  sad  and  mournful  sound 
Upon  the  evening  breeze  is  swelling. 

Another  mortal's  borne  to  ground, 

And  "  earth  to  earth"  the  tocsin's  knelling. 

But  who  is  he  that  on  the  bier 
Is  laid  in  death  so  cold  and  lowly  ? 

Who,  that  in  deepest  anguish  there, 
They  bear  along  so  sad  and  slowly? 

Say,  is  he  one  who  on  him  bears 

The  marks  of  age  all  ripe  and  mellow  ? 

One  in  the  Autumn  of  his  years, 

Whose  leaf  of  life  was  "  sear  and  yellow  ?" 

*  A  son  of  Gov.  Burton,  and  at  the  period  of  his  decease, 
a  member  of  the  Sophomore  class  of  the  University  of  North 
Carolina. 


96 


MINORA. 


Of  that  devoted  number  one 

Who  ne'er  the  path  of  love  deserted, 

And  when  his  work  on  Earth  was  done, 
Seemed  only  then  to  have  departed  ? 

Or  had  of  stormy  passion's  cloud 

The  angry  rage  on  him  alighted,  ( 
And  nothing  left,  except  a  shroud, 

To  the  heart  that  it  had  seared  and  blighted  ? 

Ah !  no.    The  warm  and  ardent  sun 
Of  youth  was  still  upon  him  shining ; 

With  him  had  sorrow  not  begun, 

His  heart  had  not  yet  known  repining. 

But  from  the  opening  scene  of  strife 
He  has  been  prematurely  hurried ; 

And  we  may  weep,  that  love,  young  life, 
And  genius,  all  in  him  lie  buried. 


MINORA. 


97 


TO  MISS 

To  those  scenes  where  thou'st  roamed  in  thy 
moments  of  childhood, 
Again,  after  absence  so  long,  thou  hast  come. 
We  welcome  thee  back  to  thy  dear  native  wild- 
wood, 

And  hail  thy  return  to  thy  own  happy  home, 

But  say,  do  those  feelings  which  once  thou  hast 
cherished, 

In  all  their  pure  beauty  and  ardor  remain  ? 
Or  are  they  but  things  that  have  been  and  have 
perished, 

Like  bubbles  that  float  but  to  burst  on  the 
main  ? 


I  know  there  are  those  who  with  Hate's  barbed 
arrow, 

9 


98  MINORA. 

All  peace  which  another  might  have,  would 
destroy. 

I  feel  there  are  those  who  would  joyously  harrow 
The  heart  where  has  reigned  only  quiet  and 

They  gladly  would  sever  those  ties  which  have 
bound  me ; 

The  sky  of  my  hopes  wTith  dark  clouds  they'd 
o'ercast ; 

With  fiendish  delight,  they  would  fain  throw 
around  me 

A  darkness  which  might  through  Eternity 
last. 

But  let  them  work  on.    So  thy  smile  beameth 
o'er  me, 

I'll  defy  of  Fate's  self  e'en  the  sternest  decree, 
For  I'll  know  that  at  last  joy  and  peace  is  before 
me, 

That  life  will  be  turned  to  a  Heaven  by  thee. 


MINORA. 


99 


TO  MISS 

Oh !  weep  not,  lady,  if  it  be 

That  for  my  truth  thy  spirit  fears ; 

Bid  anguish  from  thy  bosom  flee, 
And  wipe  away  those  useless  tears. 

And  dost  thou,  canst  thou,  then  suppose 
That  I  my  vows  of  love  forget  ? 

Cursed  be  that  hour ;  Heaven  knows 
The  fatal  moment  is  not  yet. 

Then  wipe  away  those  useless  tears, 
Oh !  let  them  not  be  shed  again ; 

And  banish  those  unfounded  fears ; 
"  I  could  not  give  that  bosom  pain." 


100  MINORA 


IMPROMPTU  LINES, 

TO  A  LADY  ON  PRESENTING   HER  WITH  A  ROSEBUD. 

One  gaze  upon  that  lovely  face, 

One  glance  from  that  soul-speaking  eye, 

And  on  the  heart  is  Love's  warm  trace, 
And  from  the  lips  bursts  Passion's  sigh. 

Take,  then,  this  fair  and  beauteous  flower, 

A  token  of  Love's  magic  power, 

And  that  I  will  for  ever  be 

Devoted  but  to  Him  and  thee. 


